Chapter 45
ELORA
Shivani snored loudly from my aunt’s bedroom. Mr. Carson had insisted on giving her my grandparent’s suite, but she’d ignored the man, opting instead to sleep in the room next to mine. I didn’t know why she’d chosen such close proximity. She had been rather kind during our week at Ravemont. Though we’d worked on siphoning, it hadn’t been exhaustive. The stable boy’s healing divinity wasn’t strong, but it was enough to fix minor wounds, and I was able to practice wielding it.
I hadn’t expected my grandmother to be so accommodating. When I’d asked to go to Ravemont to learn more about the ancestry Mama hadn’t taught me, she’d agreed immediately. Perhaps it was to endear me to her in wake of Mama’s failures. It perturbed me, the way she seemed to view our divide as opportunity.
But maybe I was just being cynical. Maybe she truly wanted to get to know me. Since I’d been successful with siphoning ever since our argument in the courtyard, she had little to nag me about. As I tossed and turned in the soft bed, I dreaded what she’d planned for the swiftly dawning morning. I supposed there was little left to discover within the estate, after walking through what felt like endless sitting rooms, and visiting the Highclere tomb made sense.
But I’d had enough of loitering about graves, and the last thing I wanted to think about was Cyran, who’d joined me at the last one.
Throwing the duvet off, I clambered out of bed. It was strange to think of my mother growing up here. Mama was a messy countertop, flour filling the wooden cracks as she rolled out dough. Mama was herbs hanging to dry above the windowsill. She was my favorite rosemary roasted chicken and lingering hugs.
This place was cold and uninviting. The light-blue walls reminded me of winter, only adding to the frigidity of these quarters. Mama was warmth, and this was everything but. As I padded across the wooden floor to the wardrobe I’d taken over, I tried to remove Mama from my thoughts. But it was almost as if the very act of being here, in her childhood room, had brought me closer to her. In noticing all the ways it wasn’t a proper fit for her, I was thinking in detail about my mother. I didn’t want to. It made me miss her and it made me angry all over again.
I shouldn’t have had to choose between my mother and anger over Theo.
Although, as I tugged my dress on over my chemise, I knew I would have had to make a choice either way. Even if Mama weren’t involved, with Cyran insisting on taking the blame as the only remaining Umbroth, if I wanted vengeance for Theo, who could I take it from? As angry as I was with him for saying it, for making me face the situation with more maturity, I couldn’t hurt Cy. It was just as much his fault as it was Mama’s. Which was to say not at all.
But I couldn’t bring myself to write to her. Because then I would have to apologize. Then I would have to admit that she tried the best she could, and that I was sorry. But I wasn’t sure if I believed that yet, so I let the idea simmer within the heat of my anger a little while longer.
A light rap on the connecting bathing suite door sounded, and as I struggled with my stays, I was glad for my grandmother.
“Good morning, granddaughter,” Shivani said as I opened the door. She seemed surprised that I was awake and dressed. Usually I called for her to come in while bundled in a comfortable spot—still abed. “I was thinking that since it’s raining this morning?—”
“We don’t have to go to the tombs today?” I blurted.
She smiled—my father’s smile with a wide grin and perfect teeth—and unwrapped the scarf protecting her hair. My grandmother was quite striking. She unwound her braids from atop her head, letting them fall down her back. “We don’t have to go, no. But we shall not be idle, dearest one.”
“Of course not,” I replied, all solemn sincerity. “You could try teaching me piano again?”
She sighed, smile fading, as she pulled her robe tighter. “I do not know if I have the patience for that, but we shall find something to keep us busy.”
I laughed, not allowing her comment to strike a nerve. The noises which came from the piano when she’d tried to help me master my scales were objectively horrid.
“Now, I’m going to?—”
A sharp knock on my door stopped us from speaking. Mr. Carson wouldn’t come so early if it wasn’t important.
“Yes?”
“I-I uh, I’m so sorry Your Highness. There are—ah, this is quite amazing—there are dragons outside? And, well, the Folterran is here as well. I don’t know what I should...” The man trailed off.
“Dragons? You said there are dragons outside? Is my mother here? My father?”
“I do not think so. They don’t seem to have riders. There is quite a pretty blue one, and it landed on the fountain. The captain is out there with it now, and the others soar above the estate.”
“How many?” I demanded, suddenly fearful something bad had happened to my parents.
“Five, I think.”
“I’ll be right out,” I said, giving my grandmother my back so she could help me tighten my stays.
“What about the boy?” Mr. Carson called through the door.
“What about him?”
“Should I show him to the drawing room?”
I bit my lip as my grandmother pulled my stays a little tighter—almost as if she was irritated.
“I suppose,” I said, but I couldn’t think about Cy when I wasn’t sure why the dragons had come to Ravemont.
“Are they all right? Your parents, I mean?”
Cy hadn’t waited in the drawing room, and instead had followed me back outside while I greeted the dragons. Lux, Irses, and Ryo were not among them, so I assumed Mama and Otya had kept them in Astana. The fact they were all healthy told me my mother was too, but I wished I knew more. Tracing my hand over Shika’s snout, I smiled when she purred. Shika was the only dragon who made such a noise for me. Like a tremendously large pet, she lowered herself into a feline position, so much like Yvi; the shadow kitten my father had created was busy chasing mice at Crown Cottage. Tucking her legs beneath her, Shika settled and closed her eyes.
“Is that Olly’s horse?” I asked, instead of answering him, glancing at the animal being led to the stable.
“Of course his name is Olly,” Cy murmured. “That little cur couldn’t have a respectable name, could he?”
I fought the twist of my lips. Cyran’s hostility toward the caretaker’s son, too young to be a threat to anyone or anything, was quite comical.
“It’s Oliver. You’d know that if you paid him any attention.”
“You shouldn’t feed stray cats, Elora. You know this, right?”
“I thought he was a cur, not a cat,” I countered, and he ignored me.
“If you feed a stray, it will follow you everywhere. If I pay him attention, he will think I like him.”
“Are you a stray cat, then?” I asked, all innocence. I stood with my hands behind my back, rocking on my heels. “Was my note to you like a little treat, making you follow me here despite the fact I left to get away from you?”
I allowed Thyra’s raucous laughter as she played with the twin dragons, Wen and Den, to distract me from the color draining from Cy’s face. I’d hurt him.
Traekka had laid down in the fountain. Too large to fit entirely, she lounged, keeping her wings up and dry. I’d missed them. Each of them had such unique personalities, but Shika brought me the most comfort. Mama had created her from a horrifying memory involving me, and the beautiful beast seemed to want to make sure I was all right because of it.
“I came to tell you I’m sorry,” Cy said in a quiet voice.
“Whatever for?” I asked.
He blinked at me, taken aback. I’d been hurt and petulant about it, but I didn’t think I had the right to demand an apology from him for what he’d said. Leaving Crown Cottage had only been a means of escaping the heavy weight of his logic. If he caused me to abandon my anger, what would I have left?
“I think it might be easier if you asked me what I shouldn’t apologize for,” he said, but before I could react, Shika growled.
Lunging for him, the dragon bared her teeth, rising to her full height. It startled me, and I moved between them. Of course, she’d hate Cy for what he’d done. His betrayal had been her inception, and it was dangerous for him to be around her. He jumped back, and despite the way his eyes tracked wildly over the animal, he didn’t summon his divinity to defend himself.
“Calm,” I commanded, reaching for her. The shadows always lingering around her had deepened, shrouding her in black. With my palm pressed to her blood-red scales, I patted her neck, attempting to soothe while avoiding the sharp spines on her jaw. “We forgive him, Shika.”
“I don’t deserve it,” he murmured. He didn’t approach, even as the touchy dragon settled. She didn’t bother closing her eyes, casting a wary glare in Cyran’s direction. I would have snickered over it, but Cyran had grown somber.
“We’ve been over this, Cy. Fresh start. Allies. I refuse to blame you for anything your family has forced upon you.”
“Regardless,” he said, cautiously taking a step toward me. Shika’s low growl stopped only when I shushed her. “It’s not just that. I’m sorry for allowing you to think I don’t care about anything.”
Staring down at his feet, amused over the painfully clean boots bearing a singular errant drop of mud, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to give him more power than he already had over me. After a moment’s indecision, I lifted my head, finding him chewing at the inside of his cheek as he stared. Begrudgingly, I said, “I shouldn’t have judged you for how you grieve. If you must separate yourself from your sorrow, then?—”
“That’s just it, min viltasma . I cannot separate myself. All I’ve ever known is grief. And the only thing I can think about, the only thought that crosses my gods damn mind every single day, is keeping myself from feeling that agony over you one day.”
Surprised, I jolted back from him. “Over me?”
“You’re all I have left, Elora.” Soft. His voice, his eyes, his lips. So very soft. “I don’t know who I am or what I’m doing, except when I’m around you. All logical sense fails me, and all I want is to make you laugh, to keep you safe. If I ponder Ismene’s death, my thoughts become consumed by you, worrying about you leaving me in the same way. I refuse,” he said, jaw trembling. His earring dangled, catching the morning light, as it brushed against the curve of his jaw. There was a faint shadow of stubble; he hadn’t bothered to shave. He swallowed hard and looked away. “And that is why I sought out the rebels in my dreams last night. The best way to keep you safe is to end this war, so I will do what I can.”
My heart leapt into my throat. Did that mean he was leaving? Did that mean he would march off to war?
What if I lost him too?
Without thought, I launched myself at him, and I ignored Shika’s reverberating growl. Arms wrapping tightly around his neck, I hugged him. Though surprised, Cy returned the embrace after only a moment.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered into his neck. “I’ve been so angry, and I took it out on you.”
Pulling back to see me, his cautious smile and hazel eyes were vibrant. There was something about catching him like this in the early morning light, like the sun chasing after the moon.
“Do you know how badly I want to kiss you?” he murmured, just as Shika let out an earth-shaking roar. Slowly, Cyran let go of me, but I was certain our gazes were fixated on each other’s lips. Summoning every ounce of courage I had, I stepped toward him.
Just as my grandmother called us inside for breakfast.
With full bellies, Cyran and I walked the halls of Ravemont. Fried potatoes, sausage, porridge, and eggs had made for a hearty meal, and it had allowed the tingling anticipation of kissing Cy to fade.
Even though I had wanted to kiss him—desperately.
Thyra trailed along behind us, just far away enough to be out of hearing distance, and I assumed my grandmother had insisted upon a chaperone. My cheeks flushed red, but could I blame her? Shivani had come outside while Cyran held me in his arms. We’d come dangerously close to spanning the treacherous bridge between a volatile friendship and something inherently more deadly. Was it daring or stupidity which made me yearn to cross it? Perhaps a chaperone was prudent.
As I led Cyran to the library, eager to spend a day with him before returning to Crown Cottage, I thought it might be nice to come to Ravemont again in the future. I’d hated it as a child during my brief visits. Stuffy adults who didn’t care enough to know me had always expected me to behave with a certain familiarity they hadn’t earned. Was it wrong to find it more comfortable now that they were all dead? I supposed this place was my inheritance, and the old memories the estate held now belonged to me.
Or Mama, I supposed, but I didn’t think she’d mind. It was funny how quickly Cy’s words had gotten into my head and led me toward reason; I was already having pleasant thoughts about my mother, although I wasn’t sure I wanted to write to her yet.
When Cyran took my hand in his, simply holding it as we walked down the hall, I was pleased to make new memories within these walls. Warm and smooth, his hand wrapped around mine with a surety that made my heart clench. Thyra cleared her throat, but I ignored it. Holding his hand would not kill us. It would not end in licentious behavior that would see my honor as a princess besmirched.
“I’ve been told the library is home to over three thousand books,” I said. “Which, I suppose isn’t a lot compared to Crown Cottage, but?—”
“It is a lot,” Cyran asserted. “I never had a library.”
I stopped in the hall just outside the door. “What do you mean? Did your palace not have a library? I thought you were raised a prince,” I said, teasing him. The curl of his lips was faint before he spoke.
“My father destroyed it when I pointed out something quite trivial.” He shrugged, as if what he’d said was normal. Gods. Faxon had been a decent enough person until he wasn’t—before he betrayed me—so I struggled to imagine growing up with that kind of life. At least I had Mama.
“That’s horrible,” I said.
“Yes. That’s why it took me so long to read The Discovered Dragon ,” he quipped, pushing open the library door and dragging me inside behind him. Lifting our hands as he backed into the room, I thought he planned to kiss my knuckles.
Thyra yelled something, and I dropped Cy’s hand to duck into the hall. “What?”
“Leave door open!” she called, walking briskly toward us.
I groaned. “Do you think my parents had such a persistent chaperone?” My cheeks flushed when I realized he might have thought I wanted to escape Thyra to engage in the behaviors she’d been tasked to subdue, but truthfully, she served as a useful deterrent to making hasty decisions. Cyran didn’t seem to hear me as he took in the room.
A large fireplace on the far wall was flanked by even bigger bookshelves on either side. “Those books are all historical accounts. Histories of Ravemont’s previous lords, how the eastern half of Vesta was settled, things like that,” I began. But when Cyran didn’t turn, didn’t even seem to breathe, I stepped forward, wondering what he was staring at.
The portrait above the fireplace was haunting. My grandparents sat on the small divan that I’d recognized in the drawing room. Behind them stood their two daughters. My mother rested her hands on her father’s shoulder. She was younger than me in this painting, though not by much. My grandfather’s hair barely had any grey in it, and I had been surprised to see him as golden-blonde when I’d first wandered into the library. Though the twins had my grandmother’s eyes, everything else about them favored Kennon. I didn’t like to look at my aunt, the likeness between us a bit frightening sometimes. With my curls and darker skin, the difference was enough, but I was sure it haunted my mother as I had grown older. Lucia was like me in so many ways, especially after hearing tales from my mother, but so unlike me in others. In front of her, my grandmother sat—stern and unhappy. A tight bun of dark hair pulled her features taut, the sharp curve of her jaw almost bird-like in this painting.
“It’s strange, isn’t it?” I asked. “Seeing Mama so young?”
Cyran said nothing as he glided closer to the portrait. With light footsteps, he seemed to be called as if by some divine power.
“Cy?”
“It’s her,” he said, voice croaking as he spoke. Thyra stepped into the room behind us, but I paid her no mind.
“Who?”
“The seer,” he said, pointing a long bejeweled finger at my grandmother. “She’s the one who made me...”
I couldn’t understand what he was saying as he turned and took long-legged strides toward me. He cupped my jaw in his hands, gaze distant as his eyes roamed over my face.
“She’s the seer who made me kill you.”